


Time

by Medie



Category: Highlander: The Series, Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-31
Updated: 2010-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In five thousand years, Methos has learned this much, there's no need to be heartless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beccadb](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=beccadb).



> written for beccadg's prompt of Jack Harkness and Methos "Time"

The boy resurrects without fanfare. It's a simple gasp, then wild eyes searching around. Methos lays a hand flat on his chest, leans in with a small smile, and murmurs, "Well, now, isn't this interesting."

*

The whole of the continent is in flames. At least, it seems that way and most of Methos' favorite haunts are a little bombed out at the moment. Not particularly fond of being buried in rubble, he turns his eye to any point that isn't London and, well, perhaps that's how he lands himself in Wales.

Not a particularly bad spot, the local pubs aren't terrible, food's halfway decent, and no one pays much attention to a sad-eyed man in a room over the waterfront. He makes up a story that's believable as to his absence from the front and wiles away the hours shut up in his room, taking the occasional meal and pouring over a few old books.

It's passable, if not entirely comfortable, but there's nary another Immortal for a dozen miles and that's all that can be asked.

Which, of course, is precisely when the boy makes his appearance.

*

He's not a _boy_, of course. He's well into adulthood, but there's a youthful light to the smile and something altogether unsophisticated about the man. Methos eyes him with some curiosity, but not much interest, casting a casual glance his way throughout his meal.

They frequent the same establishments, it seems, so he has plenty of opportunity to ponder the puzzle. There is something to him. Physically attractive, yes, but more than that.

"Chalk it up to Immortal intuition," Methos told himself, muttering under his breath in a language he'd forgotten the name of, "but something's not quite right with that one." He hasn't lived as long as he has without some particularly evolved survival skills. Skills that, at present, were whispering there was something more going on.

*

"Captain Jack Harkness," the boy says, leaning over with a winning smile. American. At least, not a local, not English, the accent all wrong to be either one. It was an odd mix, but three words didn't help beyond 'American'. "You've been watching me."

"I watch a lot of people," Methos says, easy on the delivery. "You make an interesting puzzle."

"How's that?" Captain Jack asks, sliding into the chair opposite without so much as a 'mother, may I?' and waves for a pint. "It's the American thing, right?" He leans forward, thickening the accent deliberately as he says, "Can't figure out what a boy like me is doing in a place like this."

"Oh, I'm sure you have a perfectly good story," Methos says. "All ready to be shared."

"Feel like I should share it?"

"Maybe later," Methos nudges his empty glass forward. It's not subtle, but then he doubts that Captain Jack much cares.

*

"I bet you have a story too."

Methos looks up. His afternoon shopping, if the rations can be called that, swing from his arm as he picks through the pile of books. The bookstore's small, badly stocked, but it has it's charms and he's intent on finding the works of them.

"I suppose that I do," he agrees. "Enjoying the afternoon sun, Captain?"

Jack squints at the grey sky overhead and smiles gamely. "Great day for an afternoon constitutional, don't you think?"

Methos considers him with the briefest of smiles. He's been propositioned in a conversation about the weather. This one had talent, it seems. "Is that an invitation, Captain?"

*

With Jack, all things are an invitation. Methos finds it oddly refreshing.

*

"You read this?" Jack holds up the book, Egyptian, so Methos can see.

It's one of his personal collection. Personal in that he'd transcribed it from the scrolls himself, painstakingly copying it from medium to medium throughout the ages, and he smiles.

"After a fashion."

He stretches out on his bed, letting the early light of morning wash over his back, as he watches Jack poke through his collection. Nothing particularly risky there. Nothing that Jack shouldn't see that isn't in a language a few thousand years dead. Enough time between then and now that Methos is one of a few who could understand them.

Watching Jack, he imagines trying to explain things, and closes his eyes. He's never enjoyed that part of the Immortal existence and sees no need to dwell now. Certainly isn't as if he plans on telling the boy anything.

In five thousand years, Methos has learned this much, there's no need to be heartless.

*

 

At least, not until one is knelt at the side of a corpse that isn't a corpse at all. "Here's the thing," Methos says, light as air, "You aren't like me, but you aren't like them, either." He casts a hand toward the dead lying beyond.

Jack doesn't look. He just shrugs. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Methos snorts. "Don't be so sure."

*

A decade, possibly two or three, and a couple Highlanders later, Methos wakes in a cell. It's not his first, of course. Five thousand years after all. This one, however, has a familiar face on the other side of the glass.

"The last time we met," Jack says, "you said something interesting."

"Oh, well," Methos leans against the stone, arms folded, "I say a great many things."

"You said I wasn't like you, but I wasn't like them either," Jack presses hands on the glass, palms as smooth as they'd been decades back. "And then you disappeared."

"Man resurrects from the dead without so much as a 'how do you do'?" Methos shrugs. "What would you expect me to do?"

"Explain yourself." Jack frowns. "I've done some research, _Adam_, and you sure do get around. Care to explain that?"

Methos isn't surprised when he turns away long enough to collect an stack of photographs. Some are recent - Paris with MacLeod - others are older. Older than when they met. He's halfway tempted to be concerned.

Might even consider it if not for the plaintive way Jack looks at him. "What are you?" he asks. "What am I?"

*

The explanation of aliens and time lords doesn't much surprise Methos. "Interesting story, though," he says when Jack's done. He trades him for an abbreviated explanation of the Immortals and the Game. It's enough that Jack can put two and two together and come up with zero.

"So, if I was?" he half-sighs the question, having been told enough to know the answer.

"I'd be able to tell," Methos agrees. "Sorry." He stretches his arms over his head, then reaches for the bottle between their hands. "Look at it this way, kid," he says, fond, "you've got all the time in the world to figure it out."

*

Having company along the way doesn't hurt either.


End file.
